


I Thrice Presented Him a Kingly Crown

by Quinara



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Comics, F/M, romans, season: post-series, seasonal_spuffy, time-travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-11
Updated: 2008-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinara/pseuds/Quinara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike and Buffy get stuck in ancient history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Thrice Presented Him a Kingly Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the seasonal_spuffy LJ community in November 2008. Many thanks to Gill O for the beta!

It could have been any other night. They’d met in the open in the hope it would be neutral, but the streets of Rome felt as aggressively hers as the apartment did, and the conversation wasn’t going any differently.

He couldn’t really bear to look at her, so was gazing over her shoulder instead, at the blurred mass of faces in the busy square. All the colours were muted by the soft lamplight, faces blurred into a tawny wash, all apart from the stark gleam of silver that suddenly appeared directly in his line of vision.

It was a dagger, heading towards Buffy’s neck.

“Christ, watch it!” He moved as he spoke and had her out of the way and down before he’d even finished. The dagger was now deep in _his_ shoulder and the pain was hotter than the air that started rushing around them.

“Spike, what the hell?” By the time _she_ spoke it was unclear she was asking about his manhandling or the fact they were no longer outside her favourite restaurant, crouching instead on the hard floor of some foreign room. “Shit, you’re bleeding – wait, Gino, what?” She looked up, behind him, and had to see what he’d seen: the Immortal on a mission.

“cruore meo uindicatur.”

There was another person in the room; their voice came from his left, from higher up than he was. He turned, but just as he did so the dagger was torn upwards out of his muscle and replaced by thrusting fingers. He jerked away, looking up to catch crazed eyes. They were a woman’s, bright in weathered flesh, and they had him transfixed for a moment before she set them on the Immortal.

“cruore meo sunt immortales posterii mei.”

The Immortal stood frozen, like a moth in amber, and didn’t even blink as the woman smeared her bloody hand down his forehead. Spike stayed crouching.

“cruore meo moriaris.”

The woman raised the bloody dagger once again, and in a flash that Spike could almost see she dragged it hard down her wrist.

Buffy cried out, and he thought maybe he did too, but it was absolutely nothing in comparison to the hellish shriek that echoed from the Immortal. He sank to his knees just as the woman did, mirroring her as she fell forward. Then, as the blood began to slow, he blackened, crumbling inwards until the screaming finally ended and he was left as ash.

Spike tried to take in their surroundings, unsure what else to do. Buffy’s heart was thumping wildly enough for both of them, and the scent of the corpse’s blood was growing headier and headier, but he could tell they weren’t in the standard evil den. The floor they were crouching on was mosaic, black and white, and they were surrounded by spell debris: bones, pebbles, twigs leaves. Red had already engulfed the Immortal’s remains, and it was beginning to leak into the tread of his boots.

At last, then, his brain thawed enough for him to wonder what the hell was going on.

“Spike, where are we?” Buffy whispered tightly, her thoughts clearly similar to his.

“If I knew, love...” He shook his head. “You got any ideas?”

She glanced around them, the low light making her look almost feral. “All I’ve got is evil spa.”

She was right, of course. The tile on the floor, away from the blood, was slick and shiny, and the walls were covered in robed figures, with lyres and wreathes of laurel, leering and gesturing to the recesses of his memory. It was definitely too clean.

“The Immortal was trying to kill me.”

He couldn’t think of an appropriate answer.

Fortunately, or quite probably not, a man rushed into the room. He was dressed in some sort of tunic-and-trousers and get-up, dyed in the same muddy colours as the dead woman’s ritual robe.

“Aurelia, quid agis? Aurelia!”

Spike had nothing to say as the man dropped to his knees, his voice rising to a frenzy as he cradled the body in his arms. The blood splashed the folds of his clothes and seeped deep into the fabric. Spike had to give him credit for not flinching.

Then, as suddenly as he had fallen, his head snapped up. “qui estis?” he asked, eyes flicking between them and the dead woman’s staring eyes.

“You what?” It sounded like he was speaking an Italian dialect, or maybe Spanish. It was the same as the spell at any rate, but Spike couldn’t work it out.

The man seemed to reach some decision and gently laid the body back in its pool of blood. Then he stood, no taller than Buffy as they too rose, but apparently in no way put off by that.

His eyes were still narrow. “estisne Galli?”

“Galley?” Spike wondered whether he was supposed to understand this. “There’s a galley?”

“Arr, me hearty,” Buffy concluded under her breath, possibly shocking him more than anything else since he’d met up with her. Perhaps Italy had been good for her after all.

“uos.” The man pointed at them with a stubby finger, the frown-lines on his forehead clearly framed by a boxy haircut. “Galli?” He lowered his finger to point at the jeans, or at least Spike hoped that was what he was pointing at. “ex Gallia? Vercingetorix?”

“Were-King Gaytoriks? What the hell are you talking about, mate?” A rather terrible light-bulb then lit up in his head, and he felt like groaning. “You mean Vercingetorix. Gallic chieftain.” Ancient Rome. Wonderful. Why did this sort of rubbish always happen to him?

“Spike?”

He wasn’t sure what to say. “Well,” he began. “The good news is we haven’t gone far. Spatially speaking.” She raised an eyebrow and he wanted to say more, but the man looked like he was about to blow a fuse. Which wouldn’t even be invented for another two millennia. “How’s it go?” he asked ceiling. “Sum, es, est...” And they said this stuff was never useful. “Es... esne tu Romanus? Dicisne tu Latinam?” Though, really, he wished they’d taught him some holiday Latin, because reciting the Aeneid probably wasn’t going to cut it.

Rather unsurprisingly it took the man a moment, and he screwed his face up, presumably at Spike’s pronunciation, but eventually realisation hit. “Romanus sum! estisne Galli?”

So _that_ was what he was asking. Were they Gauls? “No... non? Non sumus?” He snorted, and turned to Buffy. “Love, he thinks we’re French!”

“Très chic.” She didn’t look amused. “Mai je ne comprends pas a single word you’re saying. What the hell’s he speaking?”

Spike grinned. “Latin.”

She rolled her eyes. _Well, of course he is._ “Can we just get out of here? Or at least...” Her head bobbed downwards, and for a moment there was a quaver in her voice. His humour evaporated. “Can we get away from the body? And, god, the – ” She had nowhere to look, and was blinking at the dingy, clearly Roman interior. He reached out a hand to her without thinking, but by the time he remembered to pull it back she’d already taken it, squeezing tightly as she raised her frowning face to his.

It was stupid, really, since the way they were standing meant their hands had only moved a couple of inches and the Roman sure as hell couldn’t see, but all the same, she was doing it; making a week of stress and miscommunication worth it. It wasn’t supposed to happen.

Still, he didn’t let go, even as he pulled himself back to the task in hand. Gift horses, and all that.

The man was scowling at them again, and Spike wondered how he was going to explain their situation. “Er - nos... nos sumus ex... futura?” he tried, suddenly realising how rusty he was. “Hic est non nostro, no, noster tempus – no, bastard, third declension neuter – _hoc_ est non tempus nostrum? Ae... aetas? Is that a better word?”

Buffy brought her head a little closer to his shoulder. “Spike, are you making any sense?”

Understanding was completely lacking in the man’s face. “Well, it’s not as if I’ve ever had to speak the bloody thing before, is it?” And he’d never been that good in the first place. “Sumus ex futura,” he said again, gesturing to the corpse. “With magic...cus. Magico. A magico.”

“comprehendere coepi...” The man nodded, and Spike was a little annoyed that it was gobbledygook, rather than his careful declensions, that made him understand. With a glance back to the body he continued, ”estis carmine ab Aurelia arcessi.”

It seemed as though the woman had a name now. “Yeah,” Spike replied. “Aurelia, right.”

“What’d he say?” Buffy hissed, clearly still on edge.

“I think he’s twigged us being here has something to do with our friend on the floor.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” Her hand clenched even tighter around his, their bones interlocking. Then, with a shiver, she let him go and pressed her fingers into her eyes. “God, I can’t...”

“Possumus exire?” Spike asked, conjugations slipping into place with his urgency. He always did react well to pressure.

The Roman was watching Buffy, so he snapped, “Look at me. We want to go - volumus exire.” He pointed to the door. “Or wolumus exire, whatever penetrates your thick head.”

The man seemed to think for a moment, raising a finger to his temple, before he nodded. “sequamini,” he said, beckoning them to follow as he moved away from the body. They did, and Spike winced with every squelch of blood on the floor. Buffy was trembling, ever so slightly, from the shock and he wanted nothing more than to wrap her in a big blanket until he could make this go away. As if she’d let him.

They stepped from the gloom into a shaded courtyard, bright and airy with a colonnade round the sides and an elegant pond in the centre – for rainwater, he remembered that. The man crossed the courtyard, heading towards another doorway and Spike passed a foot into sunshine before he realised what the hell he was doing.

It was careless, he thought as he stepped back. Utterly careless. He should have realised he’d still be paying for a year behind necro-tempered glass.

Back in the shade he tried to cradle his hand, but when he looked up the man had a stake in his hand, so he stepped further into shadow and waved the slightly fetid air across his fingers, forgetting about the pain. He might have spent a year behind necro-tempered glass, but he’d spent a hundred in the gloom, and sure enough he could feel a map of shaded escape routes growing in his mind.

The man approached and Spike bounced on the balls of his feet. For a moment he realised he was surrounded by blood: that in the man and that, still warm, in the room behind him. It made him feel a little more ready.

Then, with a thump, the man was shoved into a column, his stake arm disabled behind his back by Buffy, who was golden in the sunshine. Her blood had barely registered. “Hey!” she shouted in his face. “I don’t know who the hell you are – and if you’ve got a stake you’re probably of the good – but, dammit, he is _not_ dangerous.”

“uae daemonibus!” the man spat.

“No, not demons,” she said, shaking the mane of hair she had now round her shoulders. “Not me anyway. And he has a _soul_.” She shoved him again, and Spike tried to hold back a smile. He couldn’t tell whether he liked being protected. “Souls? Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

“Animus,” Spike said at last, shaking his feelings away. The man’s eyes pierced his. “That’s not the right word, is it?” He looked to Buffy, and she seemed to tell him in no uncertain terms to _make_ the man understand. Spike sighed and tried again, placing a hand on his heart. “Bonus, intellegis?” It seemed too simple to be true, too simple that he was ‘good’. “Non malus. Non modo malus, anyway.”

The man shook his head, something like fear or reverence now in his face. “ho eudaimon? habes ton eudaimona kai ton kakadaimona?” And suddenly he was speaking differently, his pitch undulating everywhere.

“Wait, what the hell are we speaking now?”

“ho eudaimon?” The man’s voice rose, and he laughed. “nequit! filii Lamiae eudaimonas habere non possunt! mentiris!” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself it wasn’t true.

Buffy shoved him again. “We don’t have time for this.” The man protested. “Hey! I have a sister at a party with a bunch of horny Italian guys, and I _will_ be there to yell if she misses curfew.”

“et quis es?” he spat. Buffy glared at him and he turned to Spike. “quis est tua... amica?”

“Buffy? You want to know who Buffy is?” He glanced at her, almost certain he didn’t even have the words in English. “She’s the Slayer.” Nothing. “A fighter. Miles, pro Bonus. Bonum. Pro bono. No, wait.” That wasn’t what he meant. “Ea est miles pro... the Powers? Deus? Ablative plural, er, pro deis? Pro bonis hominibus?”

“estne propugnatrix?” Another laugh, though this one was a little more strangled than the last. “nequeunt propugnatrix atque Lamiae filius!”

“Oh, save it,” Buffy said, letting the man go as he continued to shake his head. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying I’ve heard it all before. Slayer and vampire, never going to work, completely incompatible, blah blah blah. Even Dawn tried that one after we got the phone call.” She rolled her eyes. “Thinks she’s all mature just ‘cause _she’s_ never had a boyfriend try and suck the world into hell. Who does she think she is?”

She stood with her hands on her hips, stake clutched in her right fist. Spike made eye-contact with the now bewildered Roman and shrugged.

“Yeah, well, anyway,” Buffy continued, blushing slightly. “I think it’s time you told us who you were.”

“Yeah,” Spike echoed, picking up the thread again. “Quis es tu?”

“quis sum?” He stood up straighter. “Lucius Aurelius Cotta.”

Spike felt like he should know the name, apart from the obvious Aurelius coincidence. He didn’t know why, though. “Well, Cotta – ” He would not call him by that poncy name. “ – how do you know about us?” Oh yeah, they were talking Latin. “Right, like, quo modo... scis tu de – nobis? De demonibus? Et propugnatrix? Is that what we’re calling the Slayer this century?”

“sum tutor.” This seemed to make him even prouder.

“Is a two-tore like a tutor?” Buffy piped up, her face pinched with concentration.

“I’d say it might be.”

“What does that mean, then?”

“Dunno.” Spike tried to remember what a tutor actually was in ancient Rome. It wasn’t just a teacher, it was something else, he was sure of it.

“sum tutor senati tutorum.” The little man was still declaiming with all the dignity he could muster. “propugnatricem ducentes seruamus.”

It was a guardian. Spike groaned. If you had guardians and Slayers... “I think he’s a bloody Watcher, pet.”

“Oh, yay.” She sounded as impressed as he was.

“uobis ad senatum mecum eundum est –” He drew himself up taller, and Spike tried to follow along. “– ut uos princeps inspiciat.”

Spike met his eyes and tried to see the intention there. “He wants to take us to his leader,” he said, not turning away. Whether it was because his thoughts were in a different language or simply because he was a watcher Spike didn’t know, but the man was inscrutable.

There was the sound of air as Buffy sighed. “It’s not as if there’s anywhere else we can go.”

“Go on then.” Spike nodded before he could decide it was a mistake. The man nodded in return.

* * *

After some quick conversation with another man (a slave, perhaps?) Cotta led them out of his house and not so far downhill, to what had to be the forum. Spike barely had time to find the next shadow, let alone look at the sights, but as he ran between the people and the temples he could feel the overbearing weight of the masonry. It was less grand than that of the buildings he knew now stood in Buffy’s Rome, but the air was still heavy with a sense of institutional religion, the kind he’d barely remembered from being human.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t been so hard to remember the smell of shit and sweat in the street, and now he was going to remember it for another hundred years. _That_ he wasn’t so happy about.

They left the centre, dodging between houses until they turned a corner and came face to face with a rather impressive building. A temple, perhaps, or something anyway that stood aloof from the dingy backstreet. As the sun dropped behind clouds Spike ran up its steps, into the shade of the portico.

Cotta pushed past him, opening the doors and walking through. Behind him Buffy seemed to follow, but then she stopped at the threshold, turning to him with a thoughtful look on her face. “Do we think this is a good idea?”

Spike shrugged, resisting the urge to scratch his face or his hands, dry as they were from all the sunshine. He needed some blood. “Good a bet as any, innit?”

“I guess.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I feel like we’re clutching at the first straw that came along. I mean, have you even managed to process where we are yet?”

“Ancient Rome, seems to me.” She was right though. It didn’t feel real. Still, maybe it didn’t have to. “Look, for all we know, this was just a standard balls-up in a Watcher-ordained plan. Mix-up of components or some such. We’ll go inside, the head honcho’ll click his fingers and we’ll be swapped for the poor gits they really wanted, back home in time for another go-round of that thrilling ‘where we stand’ conversation.”

She made a face. “Won’t that be fun.” It seemed as though she’d been enjoying them as much as he had. So much for them being adults.

They stood for a couple of seconds longer. “Go on, then,” he said at last, indicating with his head before following through the door.

It wasn’t that unfamiliar, as a hall. The colours were bright, flooding his eyes with contrast through the gloomy light, but it was hard to shake the feeling he wasn’t just in a neoclassical bank.

The buzz of chatter didn’t stop for Buffy, but as the men caught sight of him they began to fall silent. He wondered how much Cotta had told them; he hadn’t had long.

“filius Lamiae.” The call rang around the chamber, bringing complete silence in its wake. Spike tried to locate its source, but then in his eye-line one of the Watchers stood, rising from his bench on the other side of the room and letting the folds of his toga fall around him.

Spike met his gaze, raising his chin. He knew when he was being addressed. “Yeah?”

“Lucius Aurelius Cotta tutor te ton eudaimona habere dixit. probationem itaque postulamus.”

They wanted probation? “What?” It was probably best to be polite. “I mean, me paenitet – non intellego tu –” Neuter plural. “ – tua verba.”

“probationem postulamus, fili Lamiae. demonstra te sic dicis esse.”

“You want a demonstration?” Well, that didn’t make sense. “A display? Proof?” Bingo. “You want proof!” They didn’t seem that impressed.

“Spike,” Buffy hissed at his side. “What the hell is going on?”

He turned to her and shrugged. He had no idea.

“dic, fili Lamiae!”

The chamber rang again, and Spike realised he was being frowned at by a hundred Gileses. It was probably best to hop to it before they tried to off him. “non scio quid pro...bationem vos volo-tis.” It was all very frustrating. “propugnatrix – ” He thrust an arm in Buffy’s direction. “ – haec dixit me esse quid dico.”

“Don’t look at me, pal.”

“qui es? quae est familia tua?” The man looked as frustrated as he was.

“My name’s Spike.” He put his hands on his hips.

There was a murmur, and a rather more audible, “Uh, we’re trying to get home here? Maybe you could try _less_ with the macho posturing?”

He turned and glared at her, but she simply tilted her head. Annoying bint spoiled all his fun. He looked back to the Watchers, sitting on their benches like rows of puppets. “Well, I’m also called William the Bloody, but I usually kill people who call me that..”

“Spike!”

He sighed. In what way was this going to be helpful to anyone? They could whistle if they wanted his real name. “Family, right? You getting trouble from a gang or something?” And the stony silence returned. He sighed again. “I’m a member of the Aurelius clan, but since that probably doesn’t...”

There was chattering, like a swarm of wasps. Possibly happy wasps, which was even weirder. “Aurelius?” the old watcher asked again. “uero?”

“Yeah.” The Roman said it like Nest had used to, with a poncey European ‘ow’ sound, but it was clearly the same word. “Aurelius.”

“tutor eras!” The buzz continued, smiles now gracing everyone like they were in some bizarre horror flick. “per mortem etiam propugnatricem seruas, uelut Aurelios quidem decet!”

What was that? Looking after the Slayer, even through death... “Now wait just one bloody minute.” He held up a finger, but the smiles still continued. “I am not now, nor have I ever been a member of the damned _Council of Watchers_! Rather have my bollocks cut off. If you think you can just make some rash assumption – ”

He was interrupted as Buffy took his raised hand in hers, lowering them back to their sides. She didn’t let go, and it made him a little speechless. “Just go with it,” she said, patting their joined hands with her other. He looked at her and she smiled, tightly. “Let’s cling to the pluses.”

He scowled at her.

* * *

As the day wore on, the pluses seemed to become fewer and further between. The council’s proprietary way of seeing people was apparently timeless, and he and Buffy spent the afternoon being herded from one part of the council’s labyrinthine complex to the next. They were inspected like pieces of taxidermy, and Cotta seemed perfectly happy to carry out lengthy conversations while they waited, utterly unfazed as he discussed things that clearly had nothing to do with them. As far as Spike could tell, he spent most of his time talking about his relatives, informing people of Aurelia’s suicide, as well as discussing some dead Caesar, though which one of the multitude wasn’t entirely clear.

By the time they returned up the hill it was dark, and Spike’s shoulder was sore from being poked by so many Watcher-fingers. Cotta led them to another room off the courtyard, rather small but with lush, vista-like landscapes painted on the walls. Two couches stood next to each other in the centre of the room, like twin beds, complete with cushions and throws, while a table in the corner held a flickering oil lamp. It looked like this was home sweet home, Roman style.

Spike didn’t catch Cotta’s farewell, and as Buffy kicked off her shoes and clambered into bed he did the same, extinguishing the lamp as he went. It then became very dark.

He lay on his back, a throw pulled up to his chest, feeling it in his bones as the night stilled. Buffy’s breathing settled slowly beside him. Minutes passed, until the situation almost seemed familiar, even if what passed for a mattress beneath him was far too hard.

“Things are still awkward, OK?” Her voice shattered the silence, a little high and girlish again, like it had been all week. Of course they couldn’t let a night go by without it coming back to this. “Just because we’re all alone here doesn’t mean things are gonna get all cabin fevery.”

“You know what cabin fever is, right? Besides the movie?” He liked her playful, he did, but some of it seemed so fake. ‘Less you really are talking ‘bout gnawing at the walls.”

“You know what I mean.” She took in a breath. “You’ve still been avoidy for over a year, and we’ve both grown... up or apart or in some sort of direction, anyway. Sharing a bed in Ancient Rome doesn’t change that.”

“I get it,” he ground out. She acted as though he was actively trying something on. “No need to hammer it home.”

“Good.”

He felt unnaturally still, arms straight at his side, exposed to the cooling night air. It made his fingers itch, which in turn reminded him that he really wanted some blood. “You didn’t pull the beds apart though, Slayer.” He tried to keep the accusation out of his voice, but there was something of irritation all the same. He couldn’t help that.

“Well, yeah.” She sighed. “I still – like you, you know? And I trust you with my sleeping body or whatever. But we’ve got to remember this isn’t some Vegas-like trip where we can do whatever we want and forget about when we go home. There are issues. There are ex-boyfriends who tried to kill me and conned you into suicidal missions – ”

And here they went again. “No offence, but I wasn’t _conned_ by anybody.”

She shifted, making the couches creak beneath them. “Played on your natural stupidity then, I don’t know! What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Anger set his jaw in a way that wasn’t entirely comfortable. “I was _trying_ to ‘fight the good fight’!” He felt like such an idiot every time she forced him to air it out loud, but it had to be said. “Make myself worthy of my soul, of any belief you’d given me!”

“There –” Her voice was loud, and seemed to make her jump. She lowered it. “There is a _difference_. There is a _difference_ between fighting the good fight and... throwing yourself into the belly of the beast wearing a t-shirt saying ‘Eat Me’. You don’t go _looking_ for apocalyptic battles.” She paused. “You were in Hell, Spike. Hell. Do you have any idea...”

“I did the best I could.” He couldn’t bear to hear how she would have finished that sentence. “I haven’t been at this gig very long, you know.” He pushed a hand into his hair. “I thought I was doing the right thing, making my resurrection mean something before I started rubbing it in your face.”

Her response was quiet, whispered. “Just having you back would’ve been enough.”

“Really? For the world?” He sighed, his own voice subdued now. “Enough for all the other people dead and gone while I ponced along regardless?” That was the truth of it. “Bloke that brought me back had a name and a social security number, far as I can tell it. Lindsey McDonald. Didn’t even know who I was, ‘part from an Angel clone he could use to piss the big man off. Not exactly the return your conquering heroes dream of.” He sighed. “Bloody meaningless, the whole thing.”

She shuffled closer, and then her small hands were suddenly clasping his. “It’s not meaningless,” she said, thumbs pressing into his fingers. “It’s _not_. Is that what you think?”

She’d reset the boundaries, as usual. He was too miserable to care. This wasn’t the first time he’d thought it would’ve been easier if he’d just stayed dead, and he’d hated it then, too.

She squeezed his hands. “I figured it out. Took me more than a year, but the failed-apocalyptic-death shtick?” A harrowed breath. “I figure it’s like buying a gift, you know? When I threw myself into that portal I wanted you all to be safe – my death was my gift. And, OK, Willow – she too of having the social security number – she took it back to the store, but... I’d still given it.”

“And it’s the thought that counts?”

She snorted, oddly elegant. How had he found her annoying, again? “Yeah. It took a while for me to believe it, but – it’s true. For me _and_ for you. What you did meant something. It meant – ”

He didn’t let her finish, ducking his head. “How’d we get onto this, anyway? Thought we were talking about sleeping arrangements.”

“We were talking about issues.” Her hand glided from his wrist to his cheek. “And selfish Buffy forgot they weren’t all hers.” He could almost make out her features now, the brightness of her eyes. There was far too little light in the ancient night, but she still shone.

Suddenly she retreated, settling about half a foot away from him. “She also forgot that she was the one bitching about keeping away from each other, and has just acted like the biggest hypocrite in the world. And continues to talk about herself in the third person.”

He’d had about enough of this. Knowing full well he was risking a slap he darted out a hand, caught her around the waist and flipped her squealing so that her warm back was pressed against his front, sweet hair tickling his nose and brushing his eyelids.

“Not trying to do a Vegas, love,” he muttered into her ear, relishing the warmth she kindled within him. Let her try to be vapid and distant now. “But do we really have to spend another bloody year getting to the blushing and occasional hand-holding stage?”

“You’re the one who pulled us back,” she grumbled, turning closer still to nestle her forehead against his chest. She hooked an elbow over his and rested her fingers under the sleeve of his t-shirt. Something was still missing though, and she felt oddly like a butterfly, fluttering and fragile beneath his fingers.

“Should I simple things up?” he asked, unable to resist nosing her hair again. “Way I see it’s this: I’m an idiot, but I still love you. Wanted to come see you, but… Thought it was better to stick with Angel’s gang and make a go of it with what I’d got. Came to find you, only to get landed in it by your most recent honey – to whom you say you were never that attached.”

“To whom...” she snickered nervously.

He tried to get a better grip on her. “Boils down to you, Buffy. How much grief and guilt you got spinning in that head of yours? What’ll it take for you to get over me being a bit of a git?”

She shook her head, and could feel her hair brushing across his hands. “Guilt is slim-to-none.” All the humour was gone from her voice, and she continued, “We were over a month ago because of his shadiness, and I think he might have had it coming. But...” She tensed, holding him fractionally closer. Maybe this wasn’t how he wanted her. “You think you were justified in your... git-dom, don’t you?”

Spike sighed. There was no point lying, no matter that he’d been trying to gloss over it. “I do at that.”

“Then it’s not about getting over it, it’s about accepting it, accepting you.” She was definitely holding him more tightly now, and her heart was starting to thump audibly. “And I think I do, but it’s hard.” Her voice lowered, and in a moment it was dark and truthful. “I’m really, really pissed, Spike. And I can’t work out whether it’s in a way that means we can still work or not.”

“Buffy...” He sounded like he was begging. He hated that.

“I love you,” she said, hunching up into his chest. It made him seize up. “And part of you, maybe all of you, knows that. But what if all we make is pain? I thought love was heartache when I was younger, but I can’t live my life with that. I can’t.”

“You won’t, love. Please.” Then he stopped himself. He wouldn’t fall into that again. He continued, matter-of-fact and a little stilted, “I don’t think all we make is pain. That year with the First, it felt like we were making something new, something alive.” He remembered laughing with her after she’d come back from the Guardian woman, just happy that she was happy and that he was. In that moment he hadn’t cared about Angel or about any of it. They’d been together, despite the clothes between them and the Scoobies over their heads, for one elusive moment and it had been good. He’d felt free.

The memory made him pause. No matter how close he held her now he couldn’t force a bond between them. And so he let her go slightly, trying just to hold her, softening his touch and ignoring the itch in his eyes.

“Maybe things will make sense in the morning,” she said, loosening her own hold and retreating further into herself, away from her skin. “We need to get some sleep. Got a lot of stuff to fix”

They didn’t speak again, but Spike knew that they both lay awake for a long time.

* * *

When he woke up, Buffy was gone. He sighed. He should have expected it, really.

There was a basin of water on the table now, so he padded over it, trying to push thoughts of Buffy from his head. Putting his hands into the cool water realised that, obviously, a slave had put it there. He’d noticed the slave yesterday, but actually being confronted by their presence gave him a bit of a turn. After all, how did the ethics work here? There wasn’t any way he could avoid slave labour – everything he touched would be tended to by their hands, fashioned out of something from a mine. He knew how empires worked, if this Rome was yet one. It was a little terrifying.

There was still water on his face when Buffy came back, wearing some sort of smock-dress over her jeans. The yellow of it wasn’t that bad a colour for her, but the shape was awful, and he wondered if it was that that had put her in a bad mood. She clearly wasn’t happy.

“You sleep like the dead,” she said.

He shrugged. “Might as well.” He didn’t know how he was supposed to treat them now; for some reason he was more confident in the dark, could play the seduction when she was close enough to him. It was far too dangerous in the daytime. “What you got?”

She held up her hand, showing him a twisted bundle of leaves and sticks. It was laurel – he could smell it – and the fading tang of blood that also hit him put his mind straight back into the room of yesterday, with its beating hearts and burning incense.

“They – I mean – you know, the, uh, slaves?” She pulled some hair back from her face. “They were cleaning, so I snagged it. Figured it could be useful for our little mystery.”

“Good thinking.” He nodded. It was, after all. Though he wished she would have waited till he woke up.

“I think someone’s coming to visit. They were putting a bed in the room. A proper one, you know?”

“Interesting.”

She looked away from him, clenching her fist around the talisman. “About last night.” Her voice was gritty, bitter, and he could feel his heart rise in his throat. “I’m sorry, OK?” The smallest glance and then she was gone. “I shouldn’t have...”

“a, surrexistis. prodest.”

Cotta entered behind her, and Spike felt like wringing his neck in frustration. If it weren’t for the soul he probably would have done. As it was there was simply a moment of hideously uncomfortable silence.

Looking between the pair of them, Cotta waited a moment before speaking again. “eamus ad forum,” he said, a little more slowly. “necesse est mihi sagam consulere.”

“What did he say?” Buffy immediately tailed the comment. She had her business-face back on, but Spike could see something brewing, suppressed, behind the mask. He recognised it, just like he always did.

It would have to wait. “We’re going to the forum,” he said, resigned. “Cotta wants to see a witch.”

* * *

Just like the day before, Spike saw the forum as glimpses between shadows, mousy brick buildings over the shoulders of other people. It really wasn’t as impressive as the modern remnants, but in many ways it was alive, open and breathing, the air filled with smells of food and incense. The mood was ruined, however, by a gathering crowd not so far away. The hiss of their conversation was angry, too angry, and Spike had seen enough mobs in his time to know that something was brewing. He was beginning to think that maybe this wasn’t the best time to be in ancient Rome.

Cotta was still with the witch he’d come to see and Buffy was at his side, watching like he was. She was taking it in silently, her gaze drifting from place to place. She would never see as much as he had, but she’d seen her fair share, and he could tell it was with those eyes she looked, working out the slave-master relationship, cataloguing everything that could be used as a weapon. The crowd made her as edgy as it did him.

Suddenly she grabbed his arm. “Spike, that’s the Immortal.”

He looked to where she was looking. There was a group, not far from the crowd, skulking in the shadows of the temple. “Love, that’s a Roman.” He dearly hoped she wasn’t fantasising.

“Yeah, and it’s also the Immortal.” She nodded her head pointedly, clutching harder. “Look.”

He looked, and finally pinpointed the one she meant. The face was the same, and the way he held himself was the same, if you shaved off two millennia of arrogance.

He _was_ supposed to be immortal.

“Cotta,” he hissed, and the man sent the witch away, tucking a pouch of spell ingredients into his toga.

“quid dicis?”

Spike nodded over to the Immortal, making sure not to jog Buffy away from his arm. “Quis est illus vir?”

Cotta seemed to recognise him immediately, his eyes narrowing and his right hand reaching back towards the pouch. “uae sicario,” he spat. “est Marcus Iunius Brutus. filium sororis meae interfecit.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Spike shook his head, not expecting to hear _that_. “Brutus? The Immortal’s _Brutus_? Et tu, and all that? And you’re, what, old Julius’ uncle? That’s bloody ridiculous.” Cotta went from angry to confused, so Spike shook his head, waving a hand.

“Spike?”

Cotta walked away, and Spike turned back to look at her, the small frown edging between her eyebrows. She knew this history, he knew she did, and she was as confused as he was. “Looks like your old boytoy fancied himself an assassin.” He felt like laughing, he really did.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “And more than once.”

He thought for a second, marvelling at her mind. “You thinking he was Tarquin’s Brutus too?” It made an awful amount of sense, if they were going to go with this. “They were related, if I’m remembering my stuff.”

She looked blankly at him. “Huh?” Maybe American high schools didn’t cover as much as he’d hoped.

“Tarquin the Proud? Last king of Rome? Done in by yet another uppity Brutus?” The more he thought about it the more it really fit.

“Oh.” She shook her head, then blushed towards the sunlight. “I kinda meant me, but I guess that’s more your standard murder than assassination.”

That stopped him thinking. “Bollocks,” he said. “Oldest Slayer on the books? You’d be the prize of his collection.”

She didn’t look convinced, but there was a spark, as though she’d like to be. He wished he could make her self-image match his of her. “But why now?” she asked. “I signed off from Scotland. I mean, I had to, after what happened.” He’d heard about that massacre; it hadn’t sounded pretty. “I don’t lead _any_ girls anymore, and – he seemed fine with the whole Giselle thing.”

Spike really wanted to ask what she’d been thinking, going out with someone who knew her from some peppy double, but he couldn’t bring himself to. The sun was getting higher, and there were more important things to focus on. He was hungry, after all, and if they weren’t careful they’d get an earful of ‘Friends, Romans, Countrymen’ and be in one hell of a mess.

Then, in a snap, it came to him – the link. “Change of regime.”

“What?” she replied. “Oh, you mean like communists?”

“Like revolution.” It made so much sense. “Our friend Morty likes getting himself in the history books. The kings are on the way out, he’s there; the Republic’s on the way out, he’s there; the world loses its final solo Slayer, he’s there.”

She snuck another look across the crowd, leaning back. “He’s not _that_ vain.”

Yeah, right. “Believe what you want, love, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s bit’s solved.”

Something crossed her face, and it looked like shock. She soon covered it up, and crossed her arms. “You just want him to have had ulterior motives.”

“For what?” he asked, not sure what she was thinking.

“Dating me.”

It was an odd reversal, veering violently away from things that actually mattered to ‘them’. And yet he couldn’t help but go with it. “Why would I want that?” Maybe in ancient Rome she’d suddenly understand. “In case you never worked it out, Summers, I think you’re a pretty fanciable bird. The Immortal’d be a tosser _not_ to want you.” Without thinking, he went on, “It’s not his side of the equation I have a problem with.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed for a few seconds. “I am _so_ not talking about this with you!”

“Fine then.” If that was the way she wanted to play it. “Let’s get back to the mystery.” It wasn’t the time for this conversation anyway.

“Fine!” She put her hands on her hips, her voice raised enough that a devotee on the temple’s steps stumbled and then turned away. “Let’s do that. What _was_ Aurelia doing with her crazy spell? What _did_ she want Gino for?”

“She was Cotta’s wife, wasn’t she? Or sister? Revenge for Julius seems the obvious.” She rolled her eyes. “What?”

“Things are never that simple.”

She thought she was so clever. “Why the hell not?”

“Revenge doesn’t make you drag bystanders two millennia into the past.” The ‘duh’ was written into every fibre of her body.

“And what exactly do you know about revenge, Slayer?” Why did she ignore everything he said? It was always the same. Obviously being around for over a century meant that he had nothing to say, nothing useful to add.

“Oh, I know plenty about revenge.”

“Please,” he scoffed. “You just turn it back in on yourself.”

“And you don’t!” She was going to say something else, something he would hate her for, but then Cotta was back, scolding them and ushering them away from the temple. He forced them to move quickly, casting a worried glance over his shoulder at the speaker that rose before the crowd.

Spike tried to redirect his anger onto the little man, he really did, but it wouldn’t work.****

* * *

He spent the rest of the day on his own, hanging around in the kitchens in the hope that something vaguely bloody would turn up. Nothing did, but he was enough of a novelty that they slaves were happy to keep him entertained, asking stilted, overly-enunciated questions as they prepared a banquet for Cotta and his imminent guests. It was odd to realise that _he_ was the sideshow. At one point they gave him some bread, covered in fish sauce, and it was awful, but it still felt good going down his throat.

Evening fell. Buffy found him as he left the kitchen and asked in a quiet voice, “Can we patrol?”

He nodded, and followed her into the gloom. He didn’t trust himself to say anything, if only because he was so hungry, and he wasn’t sure that she did either.

There was a group of cocky vampires, just as there always was, in a backstreet. It was dark and confined, and the vampires’ ancient form of streetfighting was foreign enough to make the battle last at least a short while. He and Buffy fought in tandem, spinning over uneven cobbles until only they were left, spinning still until Buffy had him up against the wall and was inevitably, it seemed, kissing him senseless.

It had been too long since his aborted hump of Harmony, when he’d rutted like a dog because it was just too good to feel softness again, and far, far too long since Buffy had been like this with him: open, grasping, filling his mouth with her taste and moulding perfectly around him.

It was supposed to remind him of the bathroom, make him sick, but that memory had long been leached of anything but fear and broken glass; despair and cheap alcohol; white, white porcelain. None of which was here.

She was soft and sharp and wonderful, and it had to have been mere seconds before reverent cantrips were spilling past his lips. “Oh, love, let’s just be _here_.” He rolled them round, pushing her up the wall, but after a moment’s perfect friction it wasn’t enough. “Sod the lot of them.” He pushed harder, making her moan. “Christ, I love you.” Her ankle was high around his calf, grinding in a way that was worse, somehow. “None of it matters.” He had to get a hand between them. “ _Please_.”

There he was, begging again. It stopped him, just like the night before, and she didn’t seem to like it either, which he was grateful for. They drew apart as synchronised as they had come together.

Neither of them looked away, and Spike swallowed, trying to keep his heart down where it was supposed to be. Buffy’s hand lay on his chest, and as she too swallowed it clenched, momentarily a claw.

She breathed, and then she was talking. He didn’t hear the words, not at first. Whether it was trying to listen to Latin all day or what he didn’t know, but the words weren’t what he focussed on and suddenly he realised he could understand her, in ways he hadn’t in years. He could hear what she _meant_, and a thousand little fears and worries sparkled like diamond dust on the air between them.

She knew how weak she was to the pressures of her friends, knew that however much her heart wanted something, however much it burned, her trust in it had long been broken. And she was scared she’d let him down.

“I would have a holiday fling with you, Spike.” Her eyes shone. “God, in a second I would. But for us to have so little, then end it between us after we got back, after everything?” Her hand clenched again, and she pulled it back. “It would break my –” Finally she looked down, away. “Me.”

She could do it, that was the thing. If they decided enough was enough when they got back then she could let him go; she’d learned how to do that, after all these years. It would be better to wait, and build on what they had, keep the energy zinging between them so they could use it to fight, rather than diffuse it into inevitable weirdness.

“Well...” _Sod that_. He wanted to say it. More than a century of iconoclasm made the words more natural than breathing.

But her eyes were back, and so wide, begging him even as the set of her chin denied the horrid word ‘please’. He _knew_ the more they did now, the more she would have to explain, and the more likely she would break things off – it would be a simple, tactical move, pure instinct and over before she even thought about it. Decrease stress; fight better. He needed to keep himself on the right side of the effort-reward ratio.

There was a breath of wind, that blew her hair just so, and he remembered why he was a poet, not an economist.

Luckily the street they were in was deserted, and the night was as black as hell, so he didn’t have to remember whether anything _was_ unacceptable in Ancient Rome. He was kissing her again, and her face seemed even softer beneath his hands. She tuned him like a harp, winding every cord of his body to perfect tension as her hands clutched at his shirt and tears spilled onto the tips of his fingers.

He pulled his mouth away, though he covered her warm hands with his own and refused to tip his forehead back too far. He spoke, using the breath that was heaving out of her, “No more, all right? No more than this till we get back.” He shut his eyes, gathering more of her breath in his lungs, his mind already full of all the ways her sweat-soaked skin could slide over his. She would taste so different in this city, exotic and perfect, old as time and sin. Maybe he wanted a little bit of that age in her, maybe he did. Every six months she seemed infinitely more rich in her depths; the thought of the future made his mind white-out with ecstasy...

He trembled, once, then forced himself to open his eyes and carry on. “We’ll do it the old fashioned way, yeah? Lay it all out nice and clear before we retire to the bridal suite and shag like fucking bunnies.”

She laughed, she actually laughed, and then she was crying hard, collapsing into him with all the force of a waterfall and smashing her nose against his as she seized up, the spasms in her arms as violent as any of her punches. There was nothing he could do but hold her, grateful, in part, for the new lease he had to touch her hair and get in close (so close) to try and sooth her.

Far away there was the sound of horses. Shouts and cartwheels, rumbling beneath the sounds of her sobs and the growling hunger back again in his stomach.

* * *

He thought the next morning would be better than the last. Buffy still wasn’t there when he woke up, but then she never was, so that was to be expected.

“A woman’s here, with her husband,” she said when she came back in, straightening the bedclothes as he continued to wash. “I think she’s a relative of Cotta’s, but, obviously, I can’t understand a word they’re saying.”

“Right,” he replied, without a clue as to where they stood.

“And he acted like he was gonna try a spell.”

“Could be useful.”

He sat down on the end of the bed to put on his boots, but as soon as he bowed his head she said, “I, uh, I guess I’ll go help him with that.”

It took a moment, but then he immediately stood up, dropping untied laces as she fled out the doorway. “Buffy!” he called after her.

She turned, halfway out of the bedroom, and he had no idea what to say. He hadn’t expected her to stop.

“I can’t deal,” she said quietly, “with people running away from me. So I won’t. But damn it, Spike, I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Well, don’t say anything then.” He sat back down on the bed, trying not to look at her too much. “But don’t just piss off into sunshine to get away from me.”

She came back into the room, brightness into dark, and stood as though she was waiting to be interrupted. “I’ll start again, huh?” She wrapped her arms around herself, still talking quietly. “OK, I guess I’m a little freaked out, or confused maybe. I mean, are we...” She stalled, and then continued as quickly as possible, “I mean, are we, you know, properly dating now because I can’t figure if we actually decided or if it was all just heat-of-the-moment stuff and really you want to go back and fight hellbeasts with Blue what’s-her-name...”

It was the moment when he was supposed to stand up and kiss her, sweep her off her feet in time to the rising music. As it was, with morning light shining in through the doorway, all he could do was sit there and unabashedly stare, watching her face turn red.

“Er.” He swallowed. “Well.” He swallowed again, and Buffy fiddled with her hands. “I... Do you want us to be?” He didn’t care that he was putting them in her hands again; anything to have the issue out of his.

“I guess, I...” She looked up fully and caught his gaze. “I mean yes. That word with the Y in it.”

“All right then,” he replied, feeling himself start to smile.

She smiled back, coming to sit down close to him on the bed. “I think Cotta actually is expecting me, you know. I made gestures earlier.”

He took her hand in his, holding her closer. “Maybe you shouldn’t get up so early.”

She saw through him. “You know it’s midday, right? We can’t all sleep as long as you do.”

Midday? It didn’t feel like midday, nor anything like it. It never had, when he woke up. Was that what it was?

They sat in silence, and time didn’t seem to pass until Buffy spoke again. “I feel like I should crack a joke, like say that I don’t kiss guys I’m dating before we’ve been on an actual date, but, uh, that wouldn’t be funny, would it?”

“Could be, if you got the timing right.” It really wouldn’t be.

She turned slightly, touching their knees together. “We’ve been on dates, right?”

He thought back. “Well, there _was_ that time at the warehouse, you know, when –” _Dru was in town._ He decided not to finish that sentence.

She clearly knew what he hadn’t said and was grinning at him, waiting for him to carry on.

He resisted. “Shouldn’t you be doing your spell?”

She shrugged. “I guess.” They sat for a few more moments, and this time the silence grew strained. There was more to say – so much more – but he wasn’t sure he had the words yet.

Accepting it Buffy rose to her feet. “I’ll see you later?” she said. He nodded, then watched as she walked away.

* * *

Spike walked, later, through the cloisters of the courtyard in the direction of the kitchen. Thinking about Buffy had staved off his hunger for a little while, but now it threatened to take him over.

A woman he didn’t recognise, possibly the visiting relative, appeared from one of the doorways. He nodded to her, and realised how bored he was of speaking Latin. “Salve...”

She replied, “Hello, vampire.”

He stopped, just long enough for her to breathe black dust over him. His legs gave way beneath him, and he wondered whether he and Buffy hadn’t left everything just a bit too late.

* * *

He woke groggily into gloomy darkness, and wondered whether he’d been dreaming. It was so strange to have morning a second time, especially one this dark. But then his morning hadn’t been going as expected.

When he tried to sit up he found himself bound to the bed. He realised he felt weaker than he should, and the more he awoke the more something growled inside him. He tried to clench his hands, but his skin was dry, husky. The hot night air would erode him, crush him into dust. He needed blood.

There was movement to his right, a bright beacon of life in the dark. He took a breath; his nose was filled with the scent of family, of old familiarity. Someone was there for him _this_ morning, but it wasn’t Buffy, so it wasn’t any better.

“Who the hell are you?” he tried to growl, but it came out weak past his parched throat. What the hell was going on?

She replied, “My mother’s daughter,” too rich and warm. He knew he shouldn’t understand what she was saying, but in the warm haze of his dying she was making a lot of sense.

Her blood would make him whole again. That much he knew. He needed blood, and she was life.

The rational part of his mind tried to shut his bloodlust down. “Mother’s daughter? What’s that mean?” It wouldn’t go far, still spinning his head. “You bints take your father’s name here, I remember.”

“My _father_ can fellate a thousand demons. I find my own way.”

She walked closer, pulsing warm life nearer to him and tempting him to tear his bonds and drink.

“I apologise for my delay. My mother told me of her plans, but I was not here to put them into effect.” A laugh, or at least something like it. It rushed through him harder than the air and he could feel it breaking bones. “I’m not sure she expected _you_, though.”

She stood by the bed now, bright and vivid and so alive while he was but a shell. It shouldn’t be; that wasn’t the way things worked. She was mortal, transient. She would die so he could live, and she would taste of life and glory and warmth...

“Odd to think that Brutus would try killing one of us again.” Her voice continued, spoiled with health. He didn’t understand; why hadn’t he paid more attention? “I would have thought he’d work it out. No matter.”

Was it wrong to take life? It wasn’t, not so that he could live, and he was so terribly hungry. If she could just come closer, mere inches closer...

She did, and with the snap of instinct he lunged for her neck.

The chains held firm, scoring into his wrists and ankles, but he barely felt them. The woman, the life, laughed fully and scuttled backwards, drawing a dagger from her dress as she moved to a vessel on a pedestal. The moon, from somewhere, seemed to hit it, ghosting its curves with a terrifying silver.

Where was Buffy? He needed her here, and she wasn’t.

The woman held the dagger at her wrist, sharp metal stealing blood from him. “Through you, vampire, we shall live forever, Aurelian in an unbroken circle of golden blood.”

And then she cut, and Spike watched as his life was fed to clay. A howl sounded in his throat, and in dying the woman laughed again.

Unholy time was passing, and then the woman came back, their lifeblood slopping inside the figured bowl. “You don’t drink from humans, do you? Pathetic scion.” She laughed and it was delirious, as heady as the scent flooding from her wrist. “And yet you’ll drink this.”

Glazed clay smacked roughly against his chin, and a warm body slumped on top of his. Thick, hot blood began to pour against his mouth, and he swallowed convulsively, sending half into his dead lungs and half to where it could be used, burning from the inside as he came alive again. Laughter echoed in his ears, but he didn’t care, supping at the bleed as it slowed, craving wholeness again, not caring what all of this was about.

There was a sharp pain in his shoulder, but that didn’t matter. He continued to drink, desperate to fill himself.

The stolen blood began to flow through his veins, and with it came the shame, the upset and the worry. His face reverted and he could see the moonlit room, the tawny hair spread beneath his chin. The woman was silent and cold.

With a thread of cold panic, the sort only a soul could provide, he tried to shake her away from him. She slipped, finally, falling from the bed and landing with a sickening thud onto the floor.

There was blood on his shoulder, and blood on her mouth, staining her smile. He could barely believe what had happened. He stared at the body, fighting his as it shut down. Her whole life was gone, and yet its blood was not even enough to keep him awake.

* * *

“This’ll work.” Darkness; a voice. “Sanguis sanat omnia, right?” Morning again. “Come on, Spike...”

Buffy was trying to wake him up. He blinked, squinted and gazed into her worried eyes. Maybe it had been another dream.

But it hadn’t been. This couldn’t be morning, the third one though it seemed. He couldn’t trust the light coming in through the door, because she was there.

A bowl of blood rested on his lip, but she wouldn’t tip it forward. “You need to sit up, Spike, or it’s going to get everywhere.”

He reacted to her voice before he remembered the chains, but they were gone, and the Buffy-and-him scented bed he now sat in was different to that of before.

Gentle warmth sluiced his throat, mild and almost tasteless. Goat’s, maybe? It was enough to drink it with her in front of him, enough because it made him strong again.

“What happened to the woman?” he asked at last, switching eyes back to blue and meeting hers. Drowning all over again.

“There was a woman?” She looked confused. “A woman attacked you?”

“She was a bloody psycho.” Who was she? “Kept gabbing on about her mother, and the Aurelians...” Oh, bloody hell, he’d sired her.

“What?” Buffy asked. “No.” “She looked aghast. “You don’t mean Julia?”

With a new sense of urgency he sat up straight, taking the bowl from Buffy with a kiss to her knuckles in thanks. “How long was I out? How long?”

She shook her head. “A couple days? Things went to hell with the sacrifices; I – ”

“It’s all right,” he cut her off (a couple of _days_?), and clambered to his feet. With a couple of days there was a chance of tracking her down – she had to have an accomplice. “We need to get out of here, try and find her.”

Buffy sprang up next to him, her hand darting towards the poulticed wound on his shoulder. “Spike, tell me what’s going on; you didn’t – ”

And then the world changed again, dropping them on a tarmac road and bruising his backside. Day became night. The clay bowl was still in his hand. They weren’t back where they’d started, but the bruising sound of cars made it pretty clear they were back in modern times.

“Bugger, no!” Somehow he knew, he knew that the woman had risen, that she’d fulfilled her mad plan. She had started the Aurelian line, famed for blood purity over two millennia, family of the Master and of the Scourge, killers of more Slayers than any other demon clan. Bought on the back of Brutus’ immortality and his convenient Aurelian status.

He was sick, blood of centuries gushing up his throat and staining him. Soft feminine fingers smoothed over his back, but it didn’t matter.

It was all him. His fault.

God.

* * *

The shaking eventually subsided. He sat, still, on the ground and looked at all the blood beneath him.

The worst thing was that part of him had always known. He had to have known. The past was the past, after all. You couldn’t change it, only remember what you’d once forgotten. In truth it had always been this way.

He would cope. He knew he would cope. Maybe not right now, but someday, when he actually understood what had just happened.

* * *

They returned to Buffy’s house in almost silence, polite murmurs as they went through doorways the only thing that passed their lips.

He glanced at her as he sat on the sofa and almost winced as he saw the knowledge in her eyes. Somehow she seemed to have worked out what had happened, what he’d done. She couldn’t know the bit about the Aurelians, that it was all him, but she knew that woman was changed. They must have found the body, or seen his shoulder. Something.

“This is a bad thought,” Buffy said at last, cutting through his shame. “A really bad thought, but somehow...” She laughed incredulously, shaking her head. “I feel like we could actually work now.”

He froze, disbelieving. After everything, after _everything_, she still wanted to talk about them?

“_Now_?” he managed to reply. “What happened before? The blood on my hands get too dry for you?” This was the last thing he wanted to talk about, and it should have been for her as well.

Her smile fell, at least. “I _said_ it was bad.”

“_Bad_? It’s bloody frightening.” He couldn’t stay sitting, so stood, spinning to face her. “What d’you want me for? The lives I’ve taken?” The thought came from nowhere, but suddenly it terrified him more than anything else.

She stood as well. “I didn’t mean that!” It didn’t bring him any relief, even as she balled her hands to fists. “What I meant – what I should have said – I’m _sick_ of us going through this stuff – you being in Hell, me losing half my Slayers, ancient vengeance spells screwing us both up – I’m sick of going through it and _not_ being together for it.” Tears welled in her eyes. He didn’t know what to do. “I don’t want to do it alone anymore. Years is too long to wait.”

A door slammed; Dawn was home.

Neither of them looked away, and Spike forced his lungs to work again, consciously working every muscle. He felt blank; lost in shock. He’d managed to catch up with the beginning of the conversation, but all that left him with was the realisation that this felt like it. This was the turning point, after all the stops and starts. Utterly the wrong moment, but a moment all the same. “All right,” he said at last, damning the inappropriateness. “Yeah.”

She crossed the two steps between them and kissed him, holding her hands to his cheeks. He was too distracted to make it worth her while, but for once he wasn’t sure it mattered. It didn’t feel like the start of an implosion, and that was enough. There were other things to fix.

The clomp of platform heels and a cough made Buffy pull away. She gave him a small smile, which he just about returned, before turning to the doorway. Dawn was leaning on the frame, arms crossed over her chest, clearly unimpressed.

“Dawn,” Buffy said, utterly forthright. “Spike and I are together, OK?”

“Wow.” Dawn replied, filling her voice with sarcasm. “I _never_ saw that coming.” With that she shook her head and brushed past them to her room. “You guys are so dumb.”

They watched her go, and Spike was still at a loss of what to say.

Suddenly Dawn’s head appeared again. “Congrats, by the way.” Her voice was softer.

She was gone again, and Spike felt shaken. Buffy took his hand, leading them down on the sofa. “Sorry,” she said, looking earnestly into his eyes. “I’m sorry I yelled. I didn’t mean – I promised myself I’d fix things when you woke up.”

He wanted to say it was all right, but he wasn’t sure it was. He could still feel the imprint of her kiss on his lips and it confused him more than anything else.

“Tell me everything, Spike.” She smiled, a little grimly, but didn’t let go of his hand. “Tell me everything.”

This wasn’t following the proper order of things. He knew that, and yet he needed to tell her. And so he did.

They would work the rest out as they went.

He hoped.


End file.
